


Living Proof

by theinkwell33



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adversaries, Asexuality, Aziraphale thinks Crowley is an angel, Crowley thinks Aziraphale is a demon, Enemies to Friends, Fluff, Footnotes, Gen, Good Omens (TV) Spoilers, HUGE misunderstandings, Identity Reveal, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Platonic Relationship, The Arrangement (Good Omens), they're so dumb you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 05:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19716790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinkwell33/pseuds/theinkwell33
Summary: Due to a Huge Misunderstanding when they first meet, Crowley spends the next six thousand years thinking Aziraphale is a demon, and Aziraphale thinks Crowley is an angel.  By the time they figure out the truth, they've only got eleven years left until the end of the world.Alternately, the one where Aziraphale and Crowley are enemies, but neither of them ever got the memo.





	Living Proof

It’s a cold moonless night in the desert when Aziraphale arrives at Abel's fresh grave. The humans mourning him have long since gone, and Cain has already been exiled. But as the angel emerges out of the dust, he realizes he’s not alone. There’s somebody already standing there.

“Er. Hello,” Aziraphale says, drawing up beside the veiled stranger. There’s certainly a presence emanating from them, he can feel it, he knows this isn’t a human. 

He wonders if he should show his wings, but decides against it. It’s not necessary; it should be very obvious he’s an angel1. 

> _1 He’s been told by many that his Light is rather exuberant, even in this human form. _

Besides, this man in the black veil is definitely one of the other angels sent from Upstairs, it's clear from the beautiful white wings half extended from his back. 

“Hi,” comes the reply. It’s surprisingly pleasant and casual, so Aziraphale shifts his attitude from stiff to personable in order to accommodate. You can never tell with angels, he thinks. Some think it’s rude to be too friendly.

“Ah...when did you get here? _Here,_ here, I mean. Um. Were you waiting for me?”

“Nah, was supposed to be at this place hours ago, to witness. But I got delayed. Fell off a camel. You know how it is. Didn’t know anybody else was going to show up.”

Aziraphale sags in relief. “Oh, good. Well, not _good_ , but, well, I’m late too. My caravan took far longer than expected. I’m relieved, I thought I was in trouble when I saw you.”

“Me too. Don’t come across too many Others, these days. But, it’s not bad, running into another...you know.”

“Yes, I agree.” Aziraphale fidgets with his sandals, they’re bothering him. “What a day,” he summarizes. It’s a bit of an understatement.

The man shifts foot to foot. “Yeah. Kind of a surprise, this whole thing, if you ask me. His own brother.”

“Oh, yes.”

There’s a pause. The stranger seems a little hesitant. “Been here long?”

“On Earth? Yes.”

“Yeah, me too. ‘S not going the way I thought it would, so far.”

After the whole apple business, Aziraphale was inclined to agree. “Me either.”

“Imagine if we’d been here on time.” The voice is hollow, perhaps disappointed. 

Aziraphale tilts his head, considering. What if they could have saved Abel? "Management will still have to be informed about this, I suppose." Dread leaks into his tone.

The stranger lifts his head in confusion. "Eh?"

"This whole business, you know," Aziraphale explains awkwardly, pointing down. He means to point at the grave, but it comes off as generally pointing Downstairs. Nevertheless, the meaning, in Aziraphale's naive mind, is clear. 

The man in the veil nods as if finally understanding. "Oh, right. There'll have to be a report."

"Mhm," Aziraphale sighs, thinking of the paperwork, and how he'll explain that the atrocious murder of Abel by his own brother could have been prevented if two certain angels hadn’t been late. "Do you want to do it, or should I? I expect there’s going to be a fair bit of finagling involved to make us sound at least marginally competent this time."

If the man in the veil raises an eyebrow, it’s impossible to tell. "I'll do it," he offers after a moment. "Get us out of trouble. I’m good with that. _Wily_.”

"Ah," Aziraphale breathes, "um, thank you. If it saves us from getting _fired_ , at least, I’ll be grateful."

The man snorts, as if Aziraphale has made some kind of excellent joke. "Don't mention it. Next time we see each other, you can do the honors. I’ll be here until the end of the world, and I assume you will be too. We’ll have time to take turns." 

“You’d be correct. And that...sounds nice.”

The man makes as if to leave, shifting in the sand. His feet are hidden by cloth strips wound to keep the grains out. Aziraphale mentally notes that this is a good idea he should try. 

“Wait,” he says, and the man freezes. “Ah, what's your name then?"

"Crowley," the stranger decides after apparent deliberation.

"Did you come up with that on the spot?"

"Yeah, well, I have the weirdest feeling we weren’t supposed to have met today. A false name will keep us out of trouble in case anybody asks."

"I see. Then you can call me Az.” This name change is absolutely _not_ for the same reason as Crowley's. Aziraphale doesn't think a fake name will make much of a difference. He's always liked his name. But now he wants Crowley to like him too.

* * *

The nature of humanity is that language and assumptions make life rife with misunderstanding. The same is true for angels and demons. Which, therefore, makes the conclusion Crowley draws that evening a huge problem.

After Az has departed from the gravesite in search of dinner, Crowley makes his way back to his den of iniquity in the small nearby village. He muses to himself, “Never met a demon called Az before."

And so, with the erroneous conclusions in place, Aziraphale and Crowley each think they're on the same side, and time ticks on.

* * *

By the time they meet again at the Globe Theater, Az and Crowley are now on good terms. They’ve seen each other often, which is good. If they're supposed to be on the same side, it means they're thinking along the same lines, a confirmation of their united front.

Not much has changed. They take turns writing reports, their own little Arrangement, as they call it. Nobody is the wiser. The Plan is still the Plan, humans are still humans, and really the only improvements have been wine and the invention of sunglasses2. 

> _2 And maybe, _maybe _, iambic pentameter._

Crowley doesn't know what Az's disfigurement is (demons don't ask each other, unless it's obvious), but he has always hidden his snake eyes from Az anyway. It would be impertinent for him to ask about Az's issues while concealing his own; glass houses and stones and you know. Even demons have some concept of etiquette.

Even though much is the same, there's still more to figure out about this strange world. And, there is the small question of their Adversaries, which they frequently discuss.

Az pops a grape in his mouth as they stand watching Hamlet's monologue, and the two of them occasionally heckle the actors. Well, Crowley thinks it is heckling, but Az refers to it as _encouragement_ , which makes it sound more sinister. It reminds Crowley of how Az is a better demon than him. These reminders happen frequently. 

Take Noah's Ark for instance. Crowley was the one who objected to killing all those kids. Aziraphale held fast to the Plan. And Crowley has a fondness for plants, something he never really shook after Eden. Meanwhile, Az literally is not welcome at his house anymore, because Crowley's plants never look as lush after Az has talked to them. Crowley's dying to know what he says to them3. 

> _3 He whispers encouragements to them, actually. Compliments, sweet nothings, kind words. The plants soften under Aziraphale’s angelic presence, and form Ideas about body positivity. They seem to think embracing one’s spots is acceptable. Crowley does not agree._

For another thing, Az comes across as rather benevolent for a demon, which in turn tends to make people pliable to his will. He enjoys the earthly pleasures of food and entertainment (all the better to understand human temptation), yet Crowley wouldn't touch a grape or a tragic soliloquy for anything. 

He prefers wine, and he prefers the comedies.

"Have you met your Adversary yet?" Az asks him, offering him a grape even though he knows Crowley will refuse.

"Nah, you?"

"No. I'm starting to wonder why. It's been far too long, we should have crossed paths by now. Perhaps I keep just barely missing them. There's obviously a presence, because how else would things on the other side be happening? But if we have met, I’ve never noticed."

"Yeah, same. You'd think they'd just send one of us from each side, you know? Don't see why we _both_ have to be here and we _both_ have to have a matching opponent. How many others do you think are down here with the same instructions as us?"

"Apparently nobody else has these orders," says Az sadly. "I asked the last time I met with Management. I didn’t bring you into it, of course, in case we’re not supposed to know each other, but they said there’s just me and my Adversary."

“They could be lying.”

Az gives him a look. Like he’s scandalized. Crowley wonders if Az knows how funny he is.

"Look, I don’t like this,” confesses Crowley. “It’s lonely, being the only two on Earth, and it’s annoying having to wait for the shoe to drop.”

"Mhm. Well, at least we have each other, my dear."

"'S what I was thinking."

They're quiet again as they watch the play. Out of the five people in the audience, they're almost the only ones still paying any attention. Poor Shakespeare.

"I do wish this one was popular," Az sighs after some time. He looks at Crowley with that ExpressionTM, and knows exactly what it means. Even Crowley is susceptible to Az's temptations. He supposes he wouldn't be a demon otherwise.

"Oh, fine, my treat," Crowley eventually capitulates. "But in exchange, could you go up to Edinburgh for me? There’s supposed to be a tempting of some sort."

"Hmm. I hadn't heard that. I'll have you covered, I love Edinburgh this time of year. I'm surprised they didn't ask me."

It’s times like this that the Arrangement feels like the best thing to happen to Crowley. He hates Edinburgh.

"Well, you were probably busy, the work doesn't do itself."

"No, my dear, I suppose not."

Hamlet trips over his robes and has to start the whole To Be Or Not To Be thing over again. That wasn't Crowley, but Az smiles fondly, so there's his answer.

* * *

The French Revolution debacle is the next time they see each other, and it's entirely Az's fault. Leave it to him to dress like _that_ and ignore all sorts of violent warnings just to get some good French food. Crowley has never met anyone with more indulgent desires, and it makes his rather moderate foodless lifestyle seem almost holy in comparison. He feels lame, and the feeling doesn’t go away when he shows up to rescue Az.

“Why can’t you get yourself out, Az?” he asks from his lounging position in the windowsill. He’s trying to sound at least a little put out that he has to step in. In truth he doesn’t mind, he likes saving Az, but doesn’t want anyone to suspect it. He has a reputation to maintain.

"I got a nasty reprimand last month for being too frivolous with the miracles," Az pouts from his chair, where he’s got chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles. "Otherwise I'd do it."

Crowley is shocked. He never realized that performing too many miracles was even possible. Wasn't frivolity a good thing for a demon? He supposes Hastur or somebody complained about the expense reports. Though, Crowley doesn’t like to think about what a nasty reprimand from Hell looks like. Az must be a tank to come through it all unscathed.

When he sets Az free, it's only because he knows that neither of them have met their Adversaries yet. It simply wouldn't do to have Az discorporated, because Crowley can't face two angelic Adversaries if they both show up while Az is whiling away a decade in the queue for a new body.

At least, that's what he tells himself. It's probably more than just that. 

And Az knows it, because the smile on his face as his chains fall to the dusty floor is actually beautiful. Crowley didn't realize demons had a concept of gratitude or that they could be beautiful. But then, how does one explain Az?

And, did Crowley do Good by freeing his friend, or Evil by freeing a demon? How does one explain _any_ of the events of today?

One doesn't, Crowley decides, so he lets Az buy him crepes and even though he barely touches them, he's oddly happy. It's probably time he just accepts that they are just very unusual demons.

* * *

In St. James’ Park, Aziraphale arrives to find Crowley feeding ducks. 

It’s all very pastoral and calm, and the day would have been utterly forgettable to Aziraphale, if not for his friend’s request. Crowley hands him a piece of paper, and asks for a favor.

The note says _Holy Water_ , and Aziraphale does a double take. “Ha,” he smiles. “Really.”

“Do you think you’d be able to?” his friend asks earnestly. “I know it’s a strange request.”

“You can’t just get your own?” Aziraphale tries not to sound incredulous, but it comes off somewhat snarky.

Crowley smirks. “Good one.”

“What’s it for?”

There’s a pause. “Just in case. Look, I’d do it on my own, but there are other circumstances...and you seem to know what you’re doing. And I...trust you.”

Aziraphale, in hindsight, probably should have realized something was off here; that maybe they weren’t on the same page. 

He doesn’t, though.

“It’s a strange request, but I don’t see why not. It couldn’t hurt.”

Crowley laughs.

* * *

By the time the Second World War is in full force, Az and Crowley are so busy that they haven't seen each other in years. Their correspondence is spotty, but they do manage to meet for tea at Az’s cramped apartment one rare bomb siren-less evening. 

Once the kettle boils, Az pulls down two mugs for them. He gives Crowley one that has angel wings for a handle.

“This is cute,” Crowley remarks drily, holding it up. “Properly hilarious.”

“I just had to buy it,” Az grins. “Even if it’s a little…”

“Overt.”

He emits a little chuckle. “Yes.”

The evening becomes an uneasy but quiet night. Az drinks chamomile like always, but Crowley brews a weak English Breakfast this time, just to be contrary. The caffeine makes his mind wander for a while, and he comes back to reality only to find his friend is still talking.

"...And then, I had to pull a full miracle just to escape unnoticed, it was a nightmare, so inconvenient," Az is ranting, viciously dunking a stale biscuit into his tea.

Crowley groans. “’S not like the old days anymore, people pay too much attention. Can't work in the shadows."

"No, indeed. What have you been up to, my dear? Been as busy as me?"

"Yeah," Crowley places one palm against his mug, absorbing the warmth, and waves the other noncommittally. "There's been a lot of nefarious activity, you know how it is." 

In truth, he's stopped doing any truly evil works lately, he just doesn't have the heart. These humans have thought up the worst things imaginable, and perhaps this isn't very demonic of him, but he's glad he’s not personally responsible for this particular decade, even if Downstairs thinks he is. It's painful to watch, and he hates taking credit for it. But he can't tell Az that.

"War. That'll do it,” Az muses bleakly. He stirs his tea, then in a demure tone, elaborates. "It's the same for me. Difficult work. Last week I had this whole business with some Nazis in this church and all I was trying to do was lure people with books-"

Crowley gags on his tea, not sure what exactly about this sentence is most shocking to him. The demure tone makes this information that much more unsettling. 

What Crowley eventually says is, "In a church?" 

But inwardly, he thinks, _Nazis? Az really is hardcore. I could never do that._

Luckily, Az doesn’t notice the horror on Crowley’s face. He’s too busy babbling. "Well, that's where they wanted to meet, and I couldn’t get them to reconsider the plan without revealing I _knew_ they were Nazis, and, well, it was actually a disaster. I nearly didn't make it out.”

He takes another biscuit and continues. "But I think my Adversary was nearby, because, well. When a bomb hit the church, I panicked a full miracle to protect myself from discorporation, but my Adversary - I think - kept the books safe yet destroyed the people I was meeting. Nobody else could have done that. Not even you, and you were blocks away, I expect.”

There’s a pause, and Az reconsiders. “Well, maybe it really _was_ just me who saved them. You know that sometimes I do get carried away and the miracles bleed over into other things. Maybe there was no Adversary there after all."

Crowley, who's been diverting bombs away from populated areas as his idea of causing trouble of late, frowns. Perhaps that _had_ been him? He definitely sent some bombs over empty buildings, possibly some churches. And, he's been trying his best to keep precious things (art, statues, historic monuments) from getting damaged during the raids, because he is lazy and doesn't want to fill out a report every time he's destroyed a priceless painting or something. But the odd thought occurs to him that perhaps he's been responsible for Az's strange night.

Maybe Crowley's efforts spared the books. He's fairly sure this is the case, but can't own up to it without explaining his actions. It isn't exactly the Downstairs way of doing things, and his lot don't reprimand with a tap on the wrist4. 

> _4 Or maybe they do. He should ask Az._

"I'm starting to think our Adversaries don't exist," Crowley says instead. "They're myths. We have never seen or met them, and we should have by now, especially given how frequently we find each other. And look at the world. There should be more evidence of balance if they were here. It seems right now that it's kind of a one way fight, but that's because of the humans, not because of beings like us."

"It's a fair point. But if it's just us, why would Management tell us we have Adversaries in the first place?"

"No idea."

"Let's just say it's-"

They both grumble, "-ineffable," but neither looks happy about it. And that's when the seed of concern begins to germinate. 

Something is wrong.

* * *

At some point in the sixties, Crowley starts calling Az his best friend. There could be more accurate descriptions of their relationship, but as demons aren't great with pinpointing emotional attachments, best friend is fine. Both of them know what it really means.

The holy water Az got for him (Crowley still has no idea how) is still locked up in his safe. Occasionally, he’ll take it out and stare at it, careful never to unscrew the cap. He thinks about the lengths Az must have gone through to provide it, and smiles. Az may be a demon, but he might be just enough of a good person on the inside to be worth liking.

* * *

On the night Adam Young is, ah, _delivered_ , Aziraphale is reading Paradise Lost in the upper room of his bookshop. His edition is prized among his collection for obvious reasons. He only cracks it open every few decades, whenever something doesn't feel quite right. It soothes him.

Something about Crowley is bothering him. While everything between them is fine (more than fine), the fact that neither of them have ever discussed Upstairs together is starting to seem rather odd. Perhaps Crowley has opinions about Heaven the way Aziraphale certainly does, but they've never once compared notes. 

Aziraphale is not great with confrontation, so he’s never broached the subject, but now he is starting to wonder if he should. They've been around for long enough that their whole missing Adversary issue is a well worn subject, but lately, Aziraphale has been having a new Thought that is extremely unsettling.

Has he met his Adversary and not realized it?

What if it’s someone he knows?

What if it’s...

His eyes skim over Paradise Lost, not focusing. The telephone rings.

It’s Crowley.

“I need to come over,” Crowley shouts into the phone. It sounds like he’s driving. Aziraphale adjusts the receiver.

“Yes, of course, do come over. What’s this about?”

“’S finally happening. The end of the world.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale tries to stay calm and fails. His hands are shaking. “Er...right now?” He looks out the window. A kid chases a cat down the lane. Streetlights flicker pleasantly. A dragonfly bonks against the window. “It doesn’t look like it.”

“We’ve got eleven years.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I just got the orders. I had to bring the kid, you know the one, to the family. Do the exchange. And when he grows up...boom. It’s all over.”

Aziraphale blinks, incredulous. “They asked _you_ to deliver the Antichrist? Why on earth would they ask an _angel_ to-”

“Yeah, well, it’s my job apparently, and believe me, I’m not happy about -” There’s a pause. Aziraphale can hear the rushing sound of the car through the line. After a moment, Crowley resumes, sounding confused. “Did you say an _angel_?”

There’s a certain feeling one gets in times of panic, where the floor disappears from under your feet and you plummet downwards. It feels as though your mind is still far above you, looking down at your body as if falls, and your insides are hollow. It feels like your fears have distilled down into one thing, and that one thing is how it’s going to feel when you eventually stop falling. When you crash.

This is the general emotion Aziraphale is currently experiencing, and it takes him a moment to realize Crowley’s asked him a question.

“Yes,” he manages, bemused, “since you are an angel, obviously.”

“ _Obviously_?” Crowley sounds faint. There’s a screeching of tires that sounds like he’s swerved, and a car horn blares. He mutters an expletive. “I can’t have this conversation while driving, I’ll see you in five minutes. DON’T go anywhere. And close all your blinds.” There’s a click, and Aziraphale stares at the dead phone as if it’s bitten him. It might as well have. He feels sort of sick. Poisoned.

“What on earth-?”

He hangs up the receiver, flustered. “He’d better get here fast, don’t know _what_ he means...his _job_ to _deliver…?_ ” 

Aziraphale closes all the blinds on his shop. The CLOSED sign has been displayed for hours already, but he checks the front door is locked again anyway. He unlocks the back door, and paces in front of it, thinking aloud.

“It can’t possibly, no. No way. I would _know_ , there’s no chance -”

The sound of a car door slamming interrupts his perplexed stammering. He opens the door immediately, before Crowely’s even knocked.

“Get inside,” Aziraphale motions him through, slams the door behind him, and flicks the lock. Crowley’s throwing off his jacket already, and he casts it haphazardly onto the back of an armchair. Unsure of what to say first, Aziraphale busies himself with opening a bottle of wine in small kitchen in the adjacent room. When he comes back with two mugs full of red wine5, Crowley isn’t draped across the couch like he usually is. He’s standing in the center of the room, fidgeting. Aziraphale has never seen him so nervous. 

> _5 The wine glasses hadn’t been washed since last night’s use. The mugs were the last clean cups. Even angels get behind on doing their dishes._

Neither of them speaks until they’ve been drinking for almost a solid hour. Crowley seems to be working up to saying something; Aziraphale can see it building. He must have a lot to divulge, but isn’t ready yet. In preparation, Aziraphale opens a second bottle. He has a feeling he’s going to need to be very drunk to handle...whatever this is. He doesn’t even feel that guilty; the world is ending anyway. He can’t cope with that sober.

Eventually, they reach that comfortable level of drunk where words come more freely, if less eloquently. Aziraphale sees Crowley teetering on the edge of spilling his thoughts6 but decides he can’t be patient anymore.

> _6 And the wine._

“What is going on with you, Crowley?” he finally demands, grabbing both their mugs and setting them down on the table7. They need each other's undivided attention. His friend looks up, startled, and he stands up from the couch, wobbly but incensed.

> _7 One of them is the wings mug (always Crowley’s), and this time Aziraphale has selected a black one for himself. His usual one with the halos around the rim wasn’t clean. It was either a choice of these mugs or his flower vases with scriptures etched along the rims, but Aziraphale felt those would be a bit too much. He was quite right; the scriptures probably would have killed Crowley, or at the very least given him a very painful metaphysical injury._

“’S going on with _me?_ Oh, I don’t know. ‘S the end of the world. And after the night I’ve had, how can I narrow it down? I had to make _small talk_ with all these terrible nuns, and then I met the boy’s father, well, not the _real_ one, the stand in, and he had so many annoying questions, and then there was the whole exchange itself. I’m not good with kids, not like that. Not _that_ kid. No. He was in the backseat of my _car._ Oh, and Hastur and Ligur were an absolute joy to be around when I met them to get the orders, so that was fun. And then having to tell _you_ the world’s gonna explode soon? Total highlight of the day. It’sssss hard to pick what exactly is _most_ the matter, except,” he waves his hands around in a bony half-circle, “perhaps maybe the part where you called me an angel? Can you explain that for me please? Were you just being cute, or is there something I’m misssssing here? Do I _look_ like an angel to you, Az? Tell me you’re joking.”

Aziraphale is starting to feel rather overwhelmed. He wants to move from his spot on the couch, to say something, to do anything, but he can’t. 

He doesn’t want to think what he’s currently thinking. He doesn’t want to open that box. He just stands there, staring up at Crowley. Trying not to put his faint inkling to words.

“Ugh, great,” Crowley crosses the room and crumples into an armchair. He puts his head in his hands, obscuring the sunglasses on his face and muffling his words. “’M so worked up I’m _hissing_.”

“W-what-” murmurs Aziraphale, still catching up to speed. “Dear boy, I’m not sure I follow.”

Crowley takes his head out of his hands and notices the mugs as if for the first time. His mouth gapes, and he’s staring at them in true horror. “You thought I was an angel this entire time? Is that...why? Always the wing mug?” He’s clearly having trouble forming a sentence at this point.

“Crowley, don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale frowns and stands, “of course you’re an angel. Did you hit your head?” He walks over and sits in the chair across from Crowley. He leans forward to pat Crowley on the shoulder, but gets waved away.

“Az, are you being serious with me right now? You think I’m a literal, actual, celestial, heavenly angel?” His voice is so quiet Aziraphale almost doesn’t hear it.

“Gravely serious,” Aziraphale says, and if he had a heart rate, it would be at a near lethal level by now. “Are you...are you saying you’re _not_? That you haven’t been an angel for the last six thousand years we’ve known each other? Come on, really. Don’t you think I would _know_ if you were actually a demon or something?”

“No, you really wouldn’t,” Crowley mumbles wretchedly. “‘M as much of an angel as you are.”

Aziraphale presses his fingers to his temples. “Actually, now I’m confused. I _am_ an angel. So are you. Yes?”

“No!” Crowley outburst is so shocking that Aziraphale actually flinches. “Az, that’s what I’m trying to - oh, for G- for S- for SOMEBODY’s sake!” He rakes a hand through his red hair. “I’m not an angel. And neither are you, Az. We’re both demons. Been on the same side since the beginning. Right?”

Aziraphale’s face, which is probably a pallid mask of deadly shock, says it all.

“Right?” Crowley says again, a little wildly, as if clinging to this small chance that maybe this conversation was just a joke, that everything is fine, even though he’s starting to know better.

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale whispers faintly, staring at his best friend. “I think there’s been a terrible misunderstanding.”

“ _What?_ ”

“It seems, ah,” he grasps for words. “So. Well. Mmm. The entire time we’ve known each other, I thought you were an angel. Like me. And this whole time, you’ve been operating under the assumption that I am a demon…?”

“...Like me,” finishes Crowley, sounding raw and betrayed. His face sags into a contorted grimace of pain. “I understand now.”

Aziraphale stands up again and does a lap around the room. He can’t sit still, not at a time like this. Crowley gets up too, following him, as if worried Aziraphale will leave. The angel is...touched, underneath his panic. He’ll come back to that later.

“This can’t be true,” Aziraphale mutters as he paces. “There’s no way. Aren’t we supposed to be able to sense good and evil in each other? How could I possibly think you were an angel if you were actually a demon? How could you possibly think I was a demon all this time? Do I really give off that impression? Are we really that bad at our jobs? And to think, we’ve been friends this whole time, unaware we’re on different sides! We never realized we were each other’s Adversaries over six thousand years? It’s impossible, I don’t believe it. I’ve seen you, Crowley, you’re no demon. You’re really quite a good person, I’ve always thought so-”

Before he can finish his rambling, Crowley has grabbed him by the lapels and pinned him against the wall. It’s not a harsh or violent move. Somehow, it’s still gentle. But it gets the point across. “Don’t you dare think for a moment that I’m a good person,” he threatens.

His sunglasses are so close that Aziraphale can see his reflection in them. The expression on the angel’s face isn’t terror, as any other angel would expect it to be if a demon accosted them like this. Aziraphale, if pressed, would describe it as unsurprised. He knows Crowley isn’t going to hurt him, even though all his training as an angel screams at him to eliminate any demon with maximum justice. Instead of brimming with celestial righteousness, he’s merely distracted by the fragrant smell of wine and how he’d very much like for Crowley to take a step back so they can see each other properly.

“I’ve got proof of it,” Aziraphale replies calmly. “Noah’s Ark. The Bastille. And I _know_ you diverted those bombs in the forties...I can go on.”

Crowley lets go of him and staggers back. He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “Like it or not, _angel_ , I am, in fact, a demon. There’s nothing you can do about that.”

“I...don’t believe you.”

Crowley stares at him for a long moment. “Why’s it so hard for you to believe what I am? I have no trouble believing you’re an angel, even though I do kind of hate it. I already think so highly of you, finding out you’re an angel...‘splains _everything_.”

They both reel from that confession. Crowley doesn’t seem to have planned to say that part. He ducks his head, and Aziraphale decides to skate over it for now by answering his question.

“Because I...you’re not like demons I’ve encountered before. I don’t see any proof you’re like them. And I know you don’t want to be. Doesn’t that count for something?” Aziraphale knows he is correct, and so does Crowley.

“Proof? Proof…” He seems to be going through some sort of inner battle. He ranges through a list of no fewer than five distinct expressions (guilt, hatred, anger, sadness, stoicism) before he raises a shaking hand and deliberately takes off his sunglasses.

“Is this enough proof for you?” he asks, sounding gutted.

Instead of drawing back, which Crowley clearly expects from him, Aziraphale takes a step forward to examine the strange yellow eyes.

“Snake eyes?” he asks. He puts it together quickly. He isn’t a total idiot5. “So that was _you?_ In the garden? I heard all about that.”

> _5 That’s debatable._

“Yeah.” Crowley’s anger dissipates when he realizes Aziraphale isn’t going to run screaming. “That was me. Th’ whole apple thing, my orders. Mucked it up though, didn’t even have to do much, Eve just went for it with very little input from me. Still took credit, of course. Rest is history, even if I’m not very good at my job.”

Aziraphale leans back against the wall, taking this in. “That explains the hissing, and all the ridiculous costumes to hide your eyes over the years...”

“Thought this would shock you more.”

“I’m rather past the shock threshold at this point. Still processing.”

Crowley considers him, a long, analytical look. The effect, with his exposed eyes, isn’t scary so much as unexpected. Aziraphale is used to him conveying emotion through the rest of his face, but now his narrowed eyes are doing the work.

“Az...Short for something, isn’t it.”

“Aziraphale. Yes.”

“ _Aziraphale_. Of course. Weren’t you the one with the sword? A big fiery one? Guardian of the Eastern Gate? I was warned about you.”

“Yes, that was me. I rather failed at my job too though. Gave the sword away to Adam and Eve.”

Crowley looks pleasantly surprised. “I never knew that. Sounds like you’re not very good at your job either. Especially if you fooled a demon into thinking you _were_ a demon for several thousand years.” He’s even wearing a tentative smirk now.

Aziraphale fidgets with his hands. “You make it sound so nefarious. I genuinely didn’t plot to fool anyone. I thought it was obvious what I was, and you...well you had white wings, and I assumed you were...like me.”

“So it _was_ the wings. I was wondering.”

There’s a few minutes where they take stock in their surroundings. The wine bottle, finally remembered, gets refilled. Neither of them claims responsibility for it, though. They return to their chairs. Crowley’s sunglasses stay off. It’s nearly two in the morning.

“You know,” Crowley eventually says, “the more I think about it...you said you thought I was ‘like you’.”

“Yes?”

“Angel, I think we’re a lot more like each other than we anticipated.”

“And that’s a good thing? Imagine what our superiors would say if they found out we were supposed to be thwarting each other as Adversaries but ended up like... like this? We’d be executed. Neither side likes fraternizing, and they’d be horrified if I told them I unintentionally passed myself off as a demon. Or if you told them you were so holy that an _angel_ thought you were an angel.”

“I know, ’s embarrasssssing.” Crowley’s hissing is back. Aziraphale wonders if it’s something he kept himself from doing all this time, but has stopped bothering. No point hiding it now.

“That’s not the point.”

“Th’ point? Was just making an observation.” 

“No, there’s more to this. It means we aren’t so different after all. And that we’re better together than against each other. Imagine what would happen if we used that to our advantage. Balance.”

Crowley seems to understand. He nods. “Maybe the world doesn’t have to end like this.”

“Well, it’ll have to end someday, of course, it’s part of the Plan.”

“But it doesn’t have to be a war, and it doesn’t have to be _this_ time.”

“Exactly. I don’t want to fight against you. And I strongly suspect you feel the same way about me.”

“So what d’we do? Stop Armageddon? Raise Satan’s kid?”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Unless you have a better idea.”

* * *

Eleven years later, as Crowley steps out of his burning Bentley and approached the Tadfield Airbase, he is grateful for three things. 

First, that his holy water was put to excellent use in dispatching the demon minions following him around. 

Second, that there’d been a mix-up of babies in the hospital, and that Adam Young had grown up _human_.

And third, that he and Aziraphale are on opposite sides, but also the same one. They want the same things, but will face different obstacles to achieve them.

Even if it means execution is in the cards someday, they’ll always come to each other’s aid and to humanity’s defense. That’s what best friends do. And it's their job, after all.

* * *

Aziraphale sits on Crowley’s stiff couch, turning the last Agnes Nutter prophecy over in his hands. He has an Idea.

“Crowley, if you thought I was a demon for so long, how easy do you think it would be to fool the other demons into thinking I was you?”

“I think it would be effortless,” Crowley’s voice echoes from the kitchen. He emerges with two cups of tea and hands one to Aziraphale. “This is hypothetical, though, right?”

“Not really. You see, maybe our Misunderstanding was always important. Maybe it was part of the Plan.”

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” Crowley asks over the top of his steaming cup of rooibos. “That we switch places before They come and collect us? That we fool them into thinking we’re each other, and survive our executions?”

“Well, yes.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows. “That’s mad.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale sips his tea and waits for the inevitable.

“Yes,” Crowley says. Emphatically. 

Aziraphale still waits. 

Crowley’s almost done with his tea before he finally gets there. “But I don’t have a better idea.”

“Brilliant,” says the angel. “We’d better get practicing then. Hand me your sunglasses.”

“What? Why? So you can pretend to be me?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale grins the way he always does before he makes a terrible joke, “and also because our future looks much brighter now.”

Crowley sets his tea down and gets up to take refuge among his plants, which are wilting again now that Aziraphale is here. “I hate you,” he says.

“No, you don’t,” comes the snarky response. “I have proof.”


End file.
